A Christmas For Kutner
by Articioc
Summary: Dr. Lawrence Kutner gets back home after a hard day.


First, this is a translation from a my short story written in Italian; since English is not my mother tongue, I'm afraid I committed many errors, so I will be pleased if you want to report any mistakes that I have inevitably done in style, grammar, word usage or punctuation.  
Second, I hope the reader shall forgive my prose, mainly made up by short sentences interrupted by loads of periods, but that was exactly what I wanted: my intention was to bond narration to protagonist's stream of consciousness, in order to suggest his tiredness, this using a 'broken' style, with significant intervals between disconnected phrases.

Dr. Lawrence Kutner must gather all his strength to open his house's door. The door opened. A bit creaking. Kutner dragged himself in like bearing a boulder on his shoulders. He was tired, both physically and mentally. That was a very hard Christmas. Beyond his psychological endurance limit. Moreover, he shouldn't be at work, but House called him early in the morning for a 'very interesting' case, so he said.  
A poor fellow who died later in the afternoon of fulminating hepatitis in a hideous way.  
House was satisfied: he hit the diagnosis. Kutner was shocked: one more time a patient of his was dead, in front of him, without he could do anything. That couldn't be a worse Christmas. It wasn't that he believed in or he had a family to pretend to believe in with, but it was very depressing seeing that poor devil slowly, painfully dying off while the rest of the world around him feasted happily… and while his doctors stared at him, impotent.  
He began to feel vain and pointless all this thing.  
'This thing' means medicine, his profession as a doctor. He became a medic attracted by three reasons: social prestige, intellectual challenge and saving lives. He couldn't save his parents; he wasn't able to become a firefighter nor a cop, so Kutner chose to help his neighbor that way. However, in that day didn't appeared so much prestige in a challenge that was lost, and with the challenge, a human life.  
Every time a patient died Kutner felt worn out. This day, anyway, was worse.  
Kutner shuffled to his couch and lay down. He slept for a while but when he woke up he realized that only few minutes were passed. More a faint than a snooze.  
In that moment Kutner noticed that he left his door open, but he didn't feel like get up. For a little he remained staring his entrance from the couch, then he finally found sufficient energy and will to rise. He shut the damned door. But he didn't turn the key. That was enough.  
Kutner drag himself to his bedroom but halfway he deviated to kitchen and took a whisky bottle. The last time he drank whisky was when another patient died. He didn't like that spirit. He was able to swallow it only when a patient of his died. Actually under that circumstances he was able to swallow whisky only. Still he didn't liked whisky. That was even a low-class product.  
After gulping down some sip, Kutner put the bottle on the kitchen's table and let it there while going to bed.  
He tried to sleep but an odd sensation kept him awake. A mix made up from guilt, resignation, wrath and something other more getting on his nerves.  
He placed his hand underneath the pillow. He pulled out a Heckler und Koch USP Compact. So said the armorer. Caliber 9 mm. So said the armorer. Better handgun in the world. May be.  
Kutner knew it was loaded. He kept it always loaded. And with safety off. There's no reason to keep home a weapon unready to be used, it might as well not keeping at all.  
First gun safety rule: never point your weapon to anybody. Kutner, in a heartbeat, pointed it to his temple. Second gun safety rule: keep the index finger straight along the slide of the pistol and off trigger. Kutner, again in a heartbeat, put his finger on the trigger.  
"Boom", he said. In a whisper. Like he wouldn't disturb nobody. Absurd, since there were nobody here but him.  
In that very moment Kutner woke up from tiredness-induced trance and quickly pointed his pistol to the ground, putting his index finger upon the trigger guard.  
What the fuck was wrong with him?  
That wasn't first time when he daydreamed about shooting himself. He imagined it other times, without thinking it seriously. But he never pointed his pistol to himself.  
Kutner made a deep and long expiration. Was he crazy?  
Yet, he kept staring at the gun. Its black metal was somehow strangely attractive. Sick but calm. He didn't feel at all like shooting wildly. But he kept thinking, unceasingly, to point it at his head and fire. Like it was natural. Like to walk or to eat. Like it wasn't so bad. Inadverting the danger, the deadliness.  
He couldn't see anything bad in a so simple act. Yeah, his death would ensue inevitably, but that weirdly wasn't scaring for him. He wouldn't feel pain. After all, what death was if just nought? And why be afraid of nought? Afterwards, he wouldn't experience nothing. Nor pain nor joy.  
Was he actually happy now? He wasn't able to say if he was. If the answer was no, maybe he would get out of better, annihilating himself. Terminating his life.  
Maybe he should talk about that with someone.  
Why? To be called a lunatic?  
Death, for a physician, is a normal component of life. A fellow traveler. That you frequently meet. You born, you die. "When I first saw death?" Asked himself Kutner?  
"When my parents got killed." Answered himself.  
"Yeah, but when the first time as a doctor?"  
You never forget first time. Actually neither third or fourth. Maybe tenth. Anyway, first time was when he was at medical school. A patient in his eighties. Ictus. In the end it was quite peaceful. The bigger part of the fuss was kicked up by relatives. Panicking. Understandably.  
Kutner realized he was still holding his Heckler und Koch. He let the gun fall on the bed. It fell with a soft whish. Caliber 9. Ictus. hepatitis. From Greek _hepar_, liver. Eighties. Thoughts come thro and fro, appearing and disappearing to and from a fog in front of him. Oh, well…  
Kutner put his gun again underneath the pillow. Today he would stay alive. Why not?  
There would be a day when he would pull the trigger? Maybe Tomorrow. Maybe never. Maybe after the next patient he wouldn't be able to save.  
He started to feel sleepy, but before getting under the blankets, Kutner took his phone and dialed a number. After some seconds from the other side of the communication he heard his father's voice. Stepfather's.  
"Hello?"  
"Hi dad. This is Lawrence. Merry Christmas." Without no more to say –without any will to- Kuttner hung up and let himself fall asleep.


End file.
